


Love the Drops, and Let the River Flow

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, good advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: What is he meant to do with himself now?





	Love the Drops, and Let the River Flow

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Hurt/Comfort Bingo, for the prompt "loss of vision." I've gone with a metaphorical interpretation of that.

The last year has been lovely. Truly, it has. It's lovely being free of the burden of Heaven's expectations, free of the worry that his transgressions – or worse, Crowley's transgressions – might be discovered. Free from caring what Gabriel thinks of him. Free to indulge himself. Free to be seen in public with the most important person in his life. Free to enjoy the world.

Lovely. It ought to be, well, something akin to his own personal paradise.

But increasingly, he feels... lost.

He stands now at the window of his bookshop, holding a mug of tea, and looks out into the street at all the humans going about their human lives, and he can't help wondering where he's meant to fit into things anymore.

It was so easy, once. Or, no, not easy. Never easy. But _clear_. There was a vision, a big picture. A scheme he fit into. He may never have entirely understood it, but he _believed_ in it. He didn't need to understand it, when he believed.

And now? Perhaps there is still a Plan, one deeper and kinder than the flawed vision of Heaven. He likes to think so. Perhaps he needs to think so.

But he's never been able to _see_ it. A glimpse, perhaps, at most, at what was meant to be the end of the world. But now? What is he meant to do with himself _now_?

In his hand, his tea grows cold, and outside humans pass, and pass, and pass, and the sun creeps across the sky, and no answers present themselves to him.

He doesn't see Crowley coming up behind him, but he can feel him there. He can always feel him there. He ought to turn around, ought to say hello, but he can't quite seem to take his eyes off the street, as if it might disappear if he stops looking at it. Or as if he'll disconnect from it entirely.

Crowley lays a hand on his shoulder. "You wanna talk about it, angel?"

Crowley always has been able to tell when something is wrong. But the freedom to answer him honestly when he asks, that is precious and new. He shouldn't turn his back on that.

"Possibly," he says.

"Let me guess. Someone tried to buy a book? Still upset that that bakery you like closed down? Little touch of existential angst?"

"Possibly that last one," he admits.

"Mmm." Crowley takes the tea from his hand, warms it with a miracle, takes a sip, and hands it back to him. 

Aziraphale raises it to his lips and gives Crowley a smile, small but sincere. But he doesn't quite look away from the window.

They stand there without speaking for a minute or two, the bookshop silent around them. Finally, Aziraphale says. "I just... I find myself wondering what I'm meant to do now."

"Well," says Crowley, sticking his hands in his pockets and affecting his Crowleyest slouch. "Saving the world is something of a tough act to follow."

"Mmm. It isn't just that, though."

"Yeah," says Crowley. "I know." 

He does, bless him. Well, not _bless_ him, but... Yes. He does. "I'm being very silly, I know," Aziraphale says. "We're meant to be enjoying our retirement."

"Eh, yeah," says Crowley, shrugging a little. "But, you know, I'm keeping my hand in."

Aziraphale manages another smile. It's easier this time. "I do hope you haven't been up to anything terribly evil."

Crowley grins. "Actually, I just finished a truly brilliant project. I helped ensure the creation of a computer virus that's infected half the world."

Aziraphale vaguely remembers hearing something about this on the radio, although he found it difficult to follow, having very little understanding of exactly what a "computer virus" _is_. It always conjures up the image of a machine sneezing to him, and he's fairly sure that's not right. "Goodness. That was you?"

"Yep." Crowley looks fiendishly proud of himself. Aziraphale shouldn't find it appealing, but... Well, no, it doesn't matter what he finds appealing anymore, does it? He's _allowed_. "Lots of entertaining chaos with this one. Flashing lights and spooky images and oodles of dire warnings about what it's about to do to your hard drive. They'll definitely start thinking twice about their security after this, believe me."

Aziraphale feels a brief flicker of concern. "_Does_ it actually do dire things to their, er, their hard drives?"

Crowley shifts a little, as if caught out at something. "Well, no. But! Chaos and confusion!"

"Which makes people more conscientious about the need for security for their computers. So. A good deed, then." Aziraphale takes another sip of his tea. He realizes he isn't quite facing the window anymore. He wonders when that happened.

Crowley gives him a rather adorable glare. "That's not the point, angel."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Then what is the point?"

"The point?" Crowley removes his glasses, folds them carefully, and slips them into his pocket. His eyes glint gold in the afternoon light. "The point is, I'm still me. Even if I don't belong to Hell anymore. Still a demon. And you're still an angel."

"Sometimes I'm not entirely sure about that," Aziraphale murmurs.

"Well, _I_ am, so listen to me. You're still an angel. You still need to do..." He waves a hand. "Angel things. Or you'll drive yourself mad."

"Angel things."

"Yep."

Aziraphale turns away from Crowley's gaze and sets the teacup down on a nearby shelf. "I'm not actually certain I know what those are."

Crowley makes a scoffing noise. "Yes, you do. Just because you don't have Heaven telling you what to do anymore doesn't mean you don't know what you _are_."

"Such faith you have in me," he manages, a little shakily.

"Oh, come on, Aziraphale! So you don't feel like part of the Great Plan anymore--"

"I don't!" He turns back towards Crowley. "That's precisely the problem."

Crowley makes a spitting sound. "The Great Plan was bollocks anyway, and you know it."

Aziraphale doesn't answer. There is no answer for that, other than agreement, and what can he even do with that?

Crowley puts a hand on his shoulder again, turns him back towards the window. "Look. Look out there. What do you see?"

"Humans?"

"_Humans_. The people we saved the world for. Well, and ourselves, obviously, but them, too. You want to spread goodness and light and all that blessed angelic stuff? Go and help one of them. Satan knows most of them need it."

"But what would be the _point_, Crowley? I mean, yes I can improve things for one person, and yes, that's very nice, but..." He trails off, not knowing quite what he wants to say next. Knowing what he's just said is unworthy of him.

"But it's not big picture, eh?" Crowley's voice has a lilting, mocking tone. "Not a _grand vision_? Does it need to be? Who cares!" He leans his face in close to Aziraphale's his breath warm against Aziraphale's ear. "And if you _do_ care. Well, take it from me. Small things add up. Individuals matter. I only talked one person into eating that apple, and look where it's got us."

Look where it's got them. Aziraphale gazes out the window. It no longer looks like a crowd. It looks like a young man in a hurry, a young woman with a worried expression, an elderly man burdened down with packages, a couple gazing at each other in the first flush of love. A turbulent river of individual voices and stories and lives.

"You may have a point," he says. He feels something stirring inside him, unsettled and uncertain, but hopeful.

Crowley steps back a little and gives him a smile that makes his heart flutter strangely. "Sometimes it's the simple things that keep you going," he says. "And the small things that change the world." He tilts his head, and Aziraphale can't help but feel as if those eyes can somehow see into places inside him his own vision hasn't been able to reach.

"Maybe sometimes," Crowley continues, with the exaggerated nonchalance he sometimes affects when he's saying something very important, indeed, "all it takes is putting your wing over someone when it rains."

Aziraphale feels his lips part. He reaches out and takes Crowley's hand, and he doesn't know what to say, quite, only that whatever happens now, it _means_ something. "Crowley..."

The bell on the door rings. There's a human in his shop.

Crowley releases his hand, slides his glasses out of his pocket, and covers his eyes, all in one smooth, unhurried move. But even behind the lenses, Aziraphale knows there's a meaningful look in his eyes.

He turns toward the human, and looks at her. Really looks at her. Look _into_ her.

She doesn't need a book. She needs a place to be at peace, a moment of calm. She needs just one moment free from pain and fear, one moment of clarity in which to make a decision. To find a way to keep from hurting someone she loves.

He smiles at her. Sunlight streams through the window, onto him, onto her, onto Crowley.

"Can I help you?" he says. The words are a blessing, and the blessing an answer.

The relief in her face is a vision. It is holy.

It is the work of an angel.

Crowley takes his hand again as the woman leaves, her presence in the crowd rippling out, and out, and out. "Good?" he says, quietly.

"Yes," Aziraphale says. The demon's hand is warm in his, and the sunlight bright on the street. "Oh, yes. I see."


End file.
